An underground chamber, somewhere in the Saharan Desert

Jeremiah stared coldly into the emotionless dark hollow eyes of the man holding a gun to his forehead.  Who is this guy?  He asked himself.  How did I end up in this situation, facing certain death at the hands of a man who has eluded national security for years?  And what in the world did I do to deserve this?  That’s when Jeremiah Schulster, a man about 5′ 9″ of 22 years sporting a mid-summer tan, short dark brown hair with the ends pointed from the sweat soaking his body, an athletic build developed from years of distance running, and the beginnings of a goatee, began to go back through the past 38 days in his mind.  His knees were beginning to hurt from the pressure on the concrete floor, and he could feel the sting of multiple gashes running down his back, along with the burning in his broken arms and the sheer pain of the bamboo slits under his fingernails, but he still said nothing as he continued searching for some sort of emotion in the man’s eyes who stood directly in front of him.  Finding none, and so no relief from his thoughts, the memories rushed back like the floodgates to a million nightmares had been opened.

Was it really only 38 days ago?  Yes.  It was.  I remember that day well.

The Border of Az Zawiyah District, Libya

Jeremiah, an American who was born and raised in the Shenandoah valley of Virginia, had arrived in Tripoli the day before off a United Airlines flight.  Now he had reached the Az Zawiyah District and was on the way to the area where the mission trip he was leading would be centered.  The old Ford Aerostar van bounced and rumbled down the rarely used dirt path, full of men and women in their twenties and thirties.  The van following behind them held a similar number of teenagers, and the van behind it was carrying all their supplies and cargo.  The three vans had all been given a fresh coat of white paint in expectation of the visitors, but it was of little use, as the vehicles were covered with the dirt and sand they would soon become accustomed to during the mission trip they had been planning for months.

“So, how’s the wife and kids?” The question came from Riley Chester, a man the same age as Jeremiah, that he had met only a week before the flight.

Jeremiah flipped his cell phone shut and slid it into the right side pocket of his tan cargo pants.  “Not too bad, Riley, not too bad.  Krista wishes we could’ve put it off another month or two so I wouldn’t have to leave little Ryan before I barely got to know him, but I promised her I’ll be back by the Fourth of July.  This new youth minister position has got a bigger stress load than the Army, I swear.”

Annie Kennedy chuckled.  “Ah, ah now, watch the swearing.  You’re doing great, the kids love you.  Better than they did John.”

“Hey now.”  John Kennedy was the kind of man that on first impressions you’d assume to own a motorcycle and a tattoo parlor, but he had neither.  Rather, he was an elementary school P.E. teacher.  “I tried my best with those kids, it’s just hard to switch gears from the young ones to the rebellious ones, you know?

“I know what you mean.”  Jeremiah smiled and closed his eyes.  “I already miss the three little ones at home with Krista.”

It would be the last time he smiled, but only the first of many times he would remember his wife and children, in the next 38 days.